


drink up your movements

by oflights



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oflights/pseuds/oflights
Summary: “How about, next off day, I just watch you get naked and I keep my clothes on,” Tyson says, squirming a little until he can look Gabe in the eye. “And then I can stay nice and warm and leave the exhibitionism to you.”





	drink up your movements

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even really explain why this exists; I wanted to write something quick to help me get unstuck from working on something else, and this disgustingly sappy thing came out. It's pretty embarrassing and there's no plot but whatever, I hope you like it! Even Britta.
> 
> The title is from Lorde, sorry to join the many fics that are probably going to or are already using Melodrama for fic titles, and Bridget read this over :) Here's to more stuff in the Gabe and Tyson tag, pointless or not!

Gabe is fuzzy-brained and loose-limbed and that’s why it takes him a minute or two to realize Tyson has slithered out from beneath his arm to pad to the bathroom. “Come on,” Gabe groans, thumping his face into the nearest pillow, because really—Tyson needs to learn to appreciate a good afterglow. 

“Relax,” Tyson says, voice a little faint over the running water. “I’m disgusting.” 

“Handle it,” Gabe grumbles, smiling a little when Tyson pokes his head out of the doorway with reddened cheeks and an affronted expression. “I like when you’re disgusting. Come back to bed.”

“It’ll be like two seconds,” Tyson tells him, voice fading out again as he goes back to cleaning up. “ _You_ handle it. You have no patience.”

“ _I_ have no patience?” Gabe sits up a little, grinning at where Tyson seems to be brushing his teeth, which makes him roll his eyes too. Tyson has never been a stranger to prolonged dick breath, has walked around for a while in public after coming in his pants, and once let Gabe come on his back in a bar bathroom because Gabe complained “there's nowhere else to put it!” and they were both very drunk. They sang Closer on karaoke afterward and Tyson was really into it; he’d handled being disgusting well for that.

In here, though, when it’s just the two of them and they’re not doing something stupid and irresponsible and “Brutes status” as Nate would say, Tyson can’t get cleaned up fast enough. Gabe is always a bit too out of it to time it, but he’s sure it can’t be more than two minutes ever, if that. 

Now he leaves the bathroom rubbing a towel over the spot on his chest where Gabe finished, jerking off above Tyson’s slightly aggrieved face because Gabe had pulled out of his mouth at the last moment. Gabe mourns the covered in come look and Tyson gives him a look like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, rolling his eyes like he doesn’t love that look just as much. 

Then he starts getting dressed, and Gabe groans again. “Come _on._ ”

“Give me a break,” Tyson says, hopping into boxer-briefs and pulling them up over his thighs. “I’m cold.”

“You wouldn’t be cold if you just stayed in bed, with me,” Gabe says. He wraps his arms around a pillow and squeezes it pointedly. “See? This could be you.”

“I’ll be there in a second, why are you so dramatic?”

Gabe gasps dramatically, finally getting Tyson to crack a laugh as he searches around the floor for his t-shirt. Gabe keeps hugging the pillow and watches the loose tee slip down over Tyson’s chest, his bellybutton, settling low on his waist. His nipples are still hard enough to show and Gabe smiles at them until he feels ridiculous and looks around, grabbing up the near empty lube bottle on the nightstand and throwing it gently at Tyson.

“Hey!”

“Boooo,” Gabe calls. “Take it off!” 

“What is wrong with you,” Tyson says, but he’s laughing as he crawls back into bed and shuffles right back into Gabe’s space, grabbing the pillow and throwing it across the room before taking its place. “Happy now?”

“Almost. Just get rid of this—” And Gabe plucks at the t-shirt, pushing his hand up the front and tugging at one sleeve until Tyson flails at him and smacks his hands away. “Ow. Don’t be rude.”

“Stop trying to take my clothes off,” Tyson says, looking at Gabe with bright eyes and slightly pink cheeks and a tiny fleck of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. Gabe looks at him for a full 20 seconds before his words fully land and he laughs out loud.

“Is that the first time you’ve ever said that to anybody?” And Tyson shoves him roughly, laughing breathlessly when Gabe tugs him in and holds him to his chest. He laughs into his hair and then tucks his chin there. 

“Warm now?”

“Not bad,” Tyson says, snuggling in and sighing. He relaxes a little and Gabe feels good, stroking his hand up the soft skin of Tyson’s back under his t-shirt, catching on slightly raised hockey bumps and gentling over them. Tyson sighs again and goes quiet, and it’s tempting to just follow him, to enjoy the peace and simple happiness of being still together before they roll apart and go to sleep. A perfect way to end an easy night in before a game day. 

Or he can keep giving Tyson a hard time, and before he’s even fully decided Gabe can feel a grin on his face, making the decision for him. “Listen.”

“Oh God. What now?”

“Why do you always have to get dressed in two seconds? Why can’t you let me have you naked for a little while longer?”

“You had me naked since we finished dessert,” Tyson mumbles. “I told you, I’m cold.”

“That was sex. It’s different. That’s naked with a purpose.” Tyson mutters something indistinct and grumpy; Gabe squeezes him in acknowledgment and then says, “Hey, what if next off day, I steal all your clothes—”

“No.”

“Yes. I steal all your clothes and you just spend the day naked with me.” Tyson makes a loud, high snoring sound and Gabe rolls his eyes. “I’ll be naked too.”

“How about, next off day, I just watch you get naked and I keep my clothes on,” Tyson says, squirming a little until he can look Gabe in the eye. “And then I can stay nice and warm and leave the exhibitionism to you.”

“Exhibitionism—are we going to have to fuck on Dutchy’s ping pong table again to prove who the real exhibitionist is here?” 

Tyson goes flame-red, even as he laughs. “No, no—we’re not replacing that thing again, stop it. I’m just saying—look at you. I stand to gain a hell of a lot more watching you go around with no clothes on than the opposite. Sorry Landeskog, but I’ve gotta look out for my own interests here.” 

He does a full-on eyebrow waggle and looks Gabe up and down, prompting Gabe to flip the sheets off himself and lounge back on the pillows spread out for Tyson to look at. He’s still messy—there’s lube on his thighs from when Tyson was in his lap, and Tyson finished between them and got them both—and he likes it. More than that, he likes the way Tyson’s eyes go a little darker, the way he bites his bottom lip in a way that seems unconscious, hungry. If he’s being honest, Gabe really, _really_ likes that.

“Oh yeah?” Gabe asks. He crosses his legs at the ankles and fits his hands behind his neck, hoping for a—yep. That’s a full on leer, and Gabe grins sharply. 

“Yeah,” Tyson breathes out, his mouth staying dropped open as the word escapes him. “Let’s do it.”

“All right. So we’re tabling my no clothes at all idea—”

“Yeah, we are. Forever.”

“—and you just want me to strip for you?” Gabe’s kind of joking, but Tyson sits up a little straighter. His eyes are bright and focused and he nods so quickly Gabe has a flash of concern for whiplash.

“Yeah,” Tyson says again, a little shaky. Gabe leans forward and slips a hand over the back of Tyson’s neck, meeting his eyes for one intense moment before Tyson recovers himself, as he tends to do, and presses his lips into his familiarly small, wry smile. “Yeah Gabe, exactly. Take it off.”

“Hmm,” Gabe says, stroking his fingers up into Tyson’s hair and cupping his head gently, tipping his own head back in phony thoughtfulness. As if there’s even a question of whether or not he’ll do it when Tyson looks like that at the mere image. “I’ll think about it.”

“Whatever,” Tyson says, laughing—mostly dry, just a hint of sheepishness that has Gabe drawing Tyson in for a long, wet kiss, licking up the taste of mint toothpaste and Tyson’s underlying nerves. 

“You make a good argument,” Gabe says when he’s done kissing Tyson; he smiles against his cheek and presses a final kiss there. “Way to turn the tables on me.”

“Hell yeah,” Tyson tells him, and then it’s easy to fall into bed, Gabe on his back and Tyson facing him, smiling at him until his eyes slip closed and everything goes soft. Gabe stays up a bit, glancing between the ceiling and Tyson, Tyson’s arm a pleasant weight across his chest, and falls asleep happy, planning. 

 

 

So Tyson wants to watch him get naked, and Gabe’s going to give him a show. It feels simple and good and Gabe is excited. 

He knows it’s a really good plan when he catches Tyson looking at him a few times in the dressing room: eyes guiltily flicking away as Gabe slides his t-shirt off over his head, or peels his UnderArmour down from his hips. Gabe grins at Tyson and waggles his eyebrows, or gives a little hip shimmy, or whatever because Tyson _can_ look. It might be breaking an unspoken but accepted locker room rule but so what. They’re having sex, they’re breaking _that_ unspoken but accepted locker room rule and Gabe has it on good authority that one gets broken all the time. 

Being a hockey player means parading around naked a good chunk of time and keeping your eyes at a respectable level above the waist unless you’re fucking or that’s just part of the joke that day. Gabe’s been through both with Tyson and of course Tyson, who grew up in hockey even more than Gabe did, has no issues with it on his end. 

He’s naked when he’s listening to Dutchy tell some random story, when he’s looking over his shoulder and biting his lip at Gabe ripping hockey tape away from his calves, shirtless. He looks away again, cheeks going a little pink, laughing breathlessly and clearly insensibly because Dutchy pauses and tilts his head. 

Gabe is left to watch Tyson, not just naked but flushed and wanting Gabe. He can’t think of a sight better than that right in that moment and suddenly he can’t _wait_ for when Tyson doesn’t have to look away, when he can be ashamed where it’s safe to be and they can be into that. 

He sends Tyson a calendar invite, feeling dorky and fond, grinning playfully back at Tyson on the team bus when he knows he gets it. Tyson’s furrowing his brow to read _Gabe the Babe Bares All_ scheduled for their next full, proper off day, half a road trip away now. 

Tyson’s eyebrows go up as he gets it, and then he meets Gabe’s eyes and laughs his full, breathless laugh, cutting off only when Nate shoves his face at his phone to try to see what he’s laughing about. Gabe turns back to face the front of the bus as Nate and Tyson start bickering, but he doesn’t stop grinning for the rest of the ride, even when Picks asks him if his jaw is coming unhinged from the giant burger he ate at lunch as they walk into the hotel together.

“That burger wasn’t that big,” Tyson says from behind them, and he and Nate catch up, Nate rubbing his upper arm from where Tyson probably pinched him. Gabe tries to control the grin then, because he knows exactly what’s coming: “Not even as big as his giant head.” 

“There it is,” Gabe says happily, and yeah, the grin’s not going anywhere. Picks rolls his eyes and speeds up to leave him behind but he can barely take two steps before Gabe reaches forward and throws his arm around his shoulders, not letting him go. “Don’t run from big head jokes, Calvin.”

“They’re essential,” Tyson says, coming up on Picks’ other side and throwing his arm around him too. He claps him on the back. “An Avalanche institution.” 

“You’re both sick and weird,” Picks tells them, but now he’s grinning too so it all works out in the end.

It’s a while before they’re alone enough—meaning only Nate really nearby, washing his face in the bathroom of his and Tyson’s room to get ready for his game day nap and rapping unfortunately along to Bryson Tiller—that Tyson can say, “Gabe the Babe? Really?”

“I think we’ve established with Picks that we shouldn’t mess with classics,” Gabe says dryly, lounging on Tyson’s bed and watching him change into a t-shirt to sleep in. He watches the material stretch over Tyson’s shoulders as he tugs it and fits on his most innocent look when Tyson’s tousle-haired head pops up and makes a face at him. “What?”

“Don’t bring Picks into this,” Tyson says grumpily, and Gabe laughs.

“You know what I mean. And you get my point.”

“People can see my calendar, you know. My dad sees that to keep track of my appointments. I’m declining, asswipe.”

“Appointments?” Gabe repeats incredulously, sitting up a little more on his elbows. “What appointments? Are you scheduling sessions at DQ now or what?”

“Just appointments. Business things—stop laughing at me!”

Gabe stops, but it takes a little while and it’s only after Tyson has thrown at least three articles of clothing at him. He lies back down with Tyson’s scarf covering most of his forehead and feels rather than sees Tyson climbing onto the bed with him, settling down with no space between them. It’s an invite to put his arm over Tyson’s back and rub it, so he does, even when Tyson shoves at him after a few more moments.

“Okay, I have to nap now. Get out of here, Gabe the Babe.” 

“That’s my stripper name,” Gabe says very matter-of-factly, Tyson’s laughter shaking over the top of his chest. “When I have all my clothes on I’m just Gabe. Gabriel, if you will.”

“Babriel,” Tyson says, laughing against Gabe’s throat. He settles, sighs out, and then says, “Yeah, you gotta go.”

“Hmm,” Gabe says, and Tyson pokes him in the side. 

“Get out. I have to nap. Be a good captain and take some responsibility.” Gabe knows Tyson’s right, he has to leave him alone and get back to his own room before he throws the entire game day off. But he’s so comfortable even lying fully clothed in bed, Tyson heavy and warm against him, Nate having taken what might be a full 20 years to wash his face because he knows how they are. 

“All right,” he says finally, squeezing Tyson tightly and then starting the long and horrible process of getting up. He pauses, tilting his face hopefully until Tyson rolls his eyes and gives him an encouraging kiss. Gabe grins into it, reaches around to squeeze Tyson’s ass in thanks, and then gets all the way up just in time to see Tyson’s eyes flash and his cheeks redden.

“Hey! This is why you have to go!”

“I know, I know,” Gabe says, letting Tyson’s scarf drop and putting his hands up. “I’m sorry, you’re irresistible.”

“Bite me, Landesnerd.”

“Hey, another stripper name,” Gabe laughs out, just as Nate comes in from the bathroom, presumably hears the word stripper, and turns to go right back into the bathroom. “All right, all right, I get it. Geez. I thought this was the party room.”

“Not at nap time,” Tyson says, pointedly punching a pillow into optimal softness as if he doesn’t just use Gabe’s chest a good 60% of the time they’re not on the road. Maybe that’s why Gabe still finds it hard to leave, watching Tyson wriggle under the covers and curl up into a tight, compact oval beneath them, hugging his extra pillow. “Get lost, will ya?”

“I am. Are you excited?” Gabe asks, and Tyson rolls his eyes but smiles too, a bright flash across his face.

“Yeah. Of course. It was my idea, right?”

“I can’t wait,” is a thing Gabe feels like he should be embarrassed about when he says it, but he really can’t be bothered. Especially when Tyson is the one flushing instead, ducking his head into his pillow and mumbling out, “Me too.”

Satisfied with that, Gabe starts to head out, yelling, “Suitable for minors again, Nate!” and closing the door on his curses and Tyson’s laughter. He grins at the carpet as he makes his way to his own room and has to wonder if the grin had left his face since he sent the invite. He doesn’t think it has. 

 

 

Gabe thinks it’s probably a sign of how badly the season is going already that the time before their next off day seems to stretch endlessly, an exhausting tunnel of hockey misery to slog through before they can get there. He’s always taken off days seriously as time to recharge, get away from the rink and keep his head out of there for a bit, and that feels way more important this season. He thinks if he doesn’t, he’s going to go insane.

It’s been way more important since Tyson, Gabe knows, though so much of the space between off days is filled with Tyson anyway. Practice days and travel days and nights in or out after games is a lot of Tyson time, even if they don’t necessarily spend every waking moment together. It’s enough, a lot, but it feels more complete when they have the _whole_ day.

That thought gets him through press after yet another brutal loss, through watching Tyson’s slumped shoulders as he showers off or the quiet, unenthusiastic way he shoves pizza into his mouth as he gets dressed. 

Gabe half expects Tyson to wander off to his own place and stay there when they split up, and he’s not going to blame him—he’ll give him the night to sulk if he needs it, then take tomorrow to try and make things better. He can do that.

Tyson shows up at his place a little while later though, holding an overnight bag and wearing a grim little smile. He doesn’t answer Gabe’s soft, “Hey,” when he’s let in, just steps into him and wraps his arms around his waist and squeezes until Gabe is squeezing back.

“All right,” he says after a few moments of that. “Let’s hit the deck. Big day tomorrow, eh?” 

“Yep,” Gabe says brightly. He picks up Tyson’s bag, half polite instinct and half pageantry that he knows Tyson likes despite how he rolls his eyes. “Come on. You’re gonna want your beauty rest for tomorrow.”

Tyson snorts but gets comfy as he makes his way through Gabe’s house, greeting Zoey in his soft, happy voice and then wishing her a good night before he heads up to the bedroom to sleep. Gabe follows him a little while later, enjoying the comfort of Tyson moving around freely in a space that feels like his, too, and then letting himself be dragged into bed when he’s apparently staring too goofily instead of taking action. 

“I don’t want to think about hockey for a single second tomorrow,” Tyson says quietly, when the lights are all out and he sounds more exhausted for it. Gabe sighs and strokes the nearest bit of skin he has access to, cupping Tyson’s elbow. “Make it happen, captain. It’s all you.”

“Yeah,” Gabe says, ignoring the slightly joking slant to Tyson’s voice and bearing it all as a responsibility he knows is his. “Trust me, I got this.”

“Good,” Tyson says, and his fingers slip down Gabe’s arm to hold his hand for a brief moment, a short squeeze, before he settles curled up on his side against him. 

Gabe listens for his breathing to even out then takes steadying breaths of his own, staring up at faint outside lamplight splashed across his ceiling until his vision starts to blur.

He’s got this.

The day starts without much fanfare; Tyson wakes him up by cuddling close and pressing an erection into the small of his back, until Gabe is grinning into his pillow and tensing up just enough that Tyson knows he’s awake. Then he lets Tyson grind against him for a little bit, slow little movements until he loses patience and flips around and gets his hand down Tyson’s sweats. 

Tyson supplies his hand too, loose and lazy under the covers, and they jerk each other off at a slow, languid pace, like waking up with the sun. 

They yawn and sigh in turn and mix up morning breath and when Tyson comes in Gabe’s cupped hand, Gabe swallows the loudest sound he’ll make before noon up in a wet, messy kiss.

Gabe comes after a few more insistent, impatient tugs from Tyson, a laugh shaking out of him when he hears Tyson’s stomach start to grumble and cutting off into a gasp when his orgasm hits him with a twist of Tyson’s palm. 

“There we go,” Tyson says softly, leaning in and kissing his forehead, his nose, the slackened parts of his jawline. 

He gives Gabe a few minutes, the kind of time in which Gabe can think nothing but soft, sappy thoughts about how wonderful Tyson is. Gabe complains, as usual, when Tyson starts crawling out of bed towards the bathroom, but he doesn’t move fast enough to capture him and so he has to just moan piteously as Tyson disappears, laughing at him.

Tyson’s not laughing when he comes out of the bathroom, changed and rubbing a towel over his head, to find Gabe stripped down on his yoga mat and folded into a seated twist. 

“Oh come on,” Tyson says, throwing the towel at him. Gabe smiles serenely up at him and doesn’t stop until Tyson finds more stuff to throw; then he laughs too hard and gets up to chase Tyson back into the bathroom. 

Tyson nags him into getting showered and dressed and going out for what’s essentially brunch by now, even though Gabe makes a passionate case for staying in and cooking. “No thanks,” Tyson says, putting his watch on and poking at his hair in the hallway mirror, making faces at his reflection. “I want to eat, not have sex on the kitchen floor again.”

Gabe laughs and follows Tyson out to his car. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said out loud that you _don’t_ want to have sex. Is this just some kind of personal growth or are you getting tired of me?”

“Oh, sure, that’s it,” Tyson tells him, snorting out loud and shaking his head. “Exactly. You look like _that_ and your dick is like _that_ but yeah, I’m tired of you.”

“It’s as I suspected,” Gabe says. He shakes his head too, looking down as he fastens his seatbelt and clicks his tongue. “Two months and the spark is gone. Incredible.”

“Six months,” Tyson says, and Gabe shoots a fast look over, watching redness spread from the tips of Tyson’s ears to the tops of his cheeks. “I mean, non-continuous, but still. It’s been six months, technically. Cumulatively.”

He’s blushing so hard and Gabe feels like his chest might burst. It’s probably, has to be, completely ridiculous to feel so much for a teammate you’re sort of dating, six cumulative months after you both got drunk and yelled at each other until sex happened on your other teammate’s couch. But Gabe can’t help it, and he’s never been very good at not embracing these kinds of feelings wholesale, so. 

“I’m glad you’re keeping count,” Gabe says, meaning it with every cell in his body even as Tyson chuckles with embarrassment. “But I’ve still gotta up my game here, right? Gotta keep things going for the next six months.” It’s thrilling to think about, six more months—a non-continuous _year—_ with Tyson. He can’t wait. 

Tyson’s chuckling again, a bit raspy. He clears his throat and keeps his hand on the gearshift and Gabe takes it as the unspoken invitation it is to hold it gently, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin on the back. “You really don’t have to worry about that but—okay. That’s what today is gonna be, right?”

“Right,” Gabe says, grinning out the window. He feels Tyson glance over.

“No pressure.”

“Some pressure, and I like that.” Gabe shrugs and looks back at Tyson, trying to exude as much confidence as he can. “You’re worth it.”

Tyson wrinkles his nose, the bridge of it red now too. “Gross. Don’t get all sappy on me before I’ve had my coffee, come on.”

“Fine,” Gabe says, but he doesn’t stop smiling even when Tyson reaches over and swats at his face at a red light, laughing and shaking his head.

They take a long, lazy brunch, picking at fruit and muffins and juices before indulging in heavier savory foods because “you’re gonna need your strength today, Tys,” as if Tyson ever needs an excuse for eating. He rolls his eyes accordingly. 

Gabe gets eggs benedict mostly because he likes it but also mostly so that Tyson can steal some of it and complain about the quality of the Canadian bacon, because Gabe loves it when Tyson pretends he knows a single thing about food. It’s a comfortable, satisfying meal, one that makes going home and taking a quick nap on the couch sound like an excellent plan, and he knows from the relaxed slump of Tyson’s frame that he’s going to be into that, too.

Of course he offers requisite complaints as they get home and start getting comfortable on the sectional, gently shuffling Zoey to her own section so they can both fit relatively close. 

“So this is your super extra special sex day plan?” Tyson asks, settling in between Gabe and the back of the couch until Gabe has to either accept hanging off the edge or find a better spot. He considers the options as Tyson keeps bitching. “Brunch and naps? This is literally every other off day of our lives. Watching Nate try at golf is more exciting than this.”

“You have to be patient,” Gabe says, shifting weight more onto one hip to gain more purchase. Tyson is too warm and smells too much like orange juice and champagne to move too far away from; his ass is still too big for this position to be tenable but needs must. “It’s a process.”

“What did I say about thinking about hockey today? ‘It’s a process’—yeah, a process we suck at.” 

“Relax. I think we’re pretty good at this part, actually. And the other part. The sexy part. We’re good at all the parts in my opinion.”

Tyson squints up at him, eyes narrowed in the face of Gabe’s bright, sunny smile. “Yeah but you still have your clothes on, so.”

“Patience,” Gabe says, and he laughs when Tyson knees him in the thigh. “Seriously! I mean, we can both just take our clothes off and try my idea—”

“No,” Tyson says firmly, planting the word straight into Gabe’s collarbone. Gabe strokes his fingers down his side, nodding. 

“Right. Or we could just have sex on the couch like normal.” Gabe has absolutely no intention of that, but he wriggles his hips against Tyson’s anyway, just to feel him jolt. It almost sends him toppling off the couch but in a second Tyson grabs at him, shaking his head against Gabe’s chest. Gabe grins over the top of his head because that’s what he wanted, and it’s all the more satisfying to hear Tyson say, “No, fine. We’ll do it your way.”

“You should know by now that my way is the best way,” Gabe says, and Tyson grumbles softly but he doesn’t argue with words he could really mean, and Gabe sighs happily and settles in for their nap.

He lets the day slip by like that—taking Zoey for a long walk before dinner later, listening to Tyson talk to his grandpa on the phone for 25 minutes, eating in front of the TV after their usual argument about what to watch as if Tyson isn’t generally willing to watch literally anything—and he appreciates it as a normal day in a collection of normal days with Tyson. More than sex at this point but the sex is good enough that if it was just that, it could be enough for a long time. 

But Gabe meant when he said they’re good at all the parts. He thinks that days like today prove that.

He hopes that means something to Tyson and has to assume it does; Tyson holds his hand back and kisses him without prompting or reason and clearly enjoys Gabe’s attempts at romance, even when his insistent instinct always seems to be to jump into bed. Neither of them have a good roadmap for sort of dating your teammate, or any roadmap at all, but whatever they’ve tried so far seems to have worked, so. He’s just hoping for more success.

 

 

Gabe’s fairly confident he’s got this in the bag when he starts getting things together: shutting the TV off, setting up the right playlist, dimming the lights in the living room. Tyson wanders in from where he’d been messing around with Zoey in the basement and stops in his tracks, eyes going wide. 

“Oh, wow. It’s happening, huh?”

“You bet,” Gabe says. There’s a single, wobbly moment where he meets Tyson’s eyes and almost falters—the music has started and it all feels silly and ridiculous, the kind of thing he and Tyson would lob mean jokes at each other about way back before that first time together last season. But Tyson’s eyes are a little dark and he licks his lips when Gabe keeps looking at him and it’s—yeah. It’s happening. It’s necessary.

“Have a seat,” Gabe says. He heads for the little bar that divides the living room and the dining room and pours Tyson some red wine he’d uncorked already, hearing Tyson’s snotty poser voice telling him to let it breathe. 

He’s happy when he turns to give Tyson the wine and he is sitting, though he’s also bouncing one leg nervously and looking around like he’s in a stranger’s house. “Relax,” Gabe says, meaning it a few different ways, and Tyson laughs a little nervously and takes the glass of wine, taking more of a gulp than a sip.

“Feels like I should be wearing a Hawaiian shirt for this,” Tyson says, eyes sparkling as he looks up at Gabe. “Should I go get a wad of singles to shove down your g-string or what?”

“Singles? What kind of place do you think this is? There’s a hundred dollar cover!” Gabe says, clutching his chest in mock outrage as Tyson tilts his head back and cracks up. 

“So you’re a high end stripper,” Tyson says when his laughter trails off. His knee is still jumping a little, and Gabe wants to cup his hand over it and calm Tyson down, but he also likes the pink flush over his face, the excited and slightly embarrassed brightness in his eyes. He likes seeing what he does to Tyson and likes it best when they’re exactly like this: alone in their own territory when they can indulge in it. 

It has his stomach heating up and tightening a little, and they haven’t even done anything. Gabe gives Tyson his slyest grin and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yep. This is a very classy establishment; that means keeping your hands to yourself.” 

Gabe’s backing up as he talks, waiting for the song to change but keeping Tyson’s eyes and attention locked. He lets his arms drop from his chest, letting his hands drag over his half-zipped hoodie and watching Tyson’s eyes follow them until he’s biting his lip. 

“No lap dances?” Tyson asks, clearly distracted, the complaint in his voice sounding very forced. “What a ripoff, come on.”

“Maybe if you’re good,” Gabe tells him, and there: Tyson squirms in his seat, gulps down the rest of his wine like the hypocrite he is, and then the music finally changes. 

“Oh,” Tyson says, voice a little hushed as Gabe starts letting his hips move unselfconsciously, fingers toying with the zipper of his hoodie. “Oh, geez.”

Gabe has to stuff down a laugh, trying to get into it, focusing more on Tyson than what his own body is doing—watching Tyson watch him, the wine glass still held in limp fingers, his leg stilled but the rest of him tensed up, breathing gone a little hard.

He’s still Tyson, so he keeps talking, nervous and turned on shivers shaking up every word. “All right, so you’re just going for it, eh?” 

“Why don’t you relax and enjoy it?” Gabe asks, dragging the zipper of his hoodie down slowly, Tyson tracking every movement even as he tries to laugh. 

“I mean, sure, but—”

“You’re not being good,” Gabe says, and the abruptness and immediacy with which Tyson’s mouth snaps shut warms him up completely from within, stirring something sharp and hot in his gut. 

Tyson’s mouth only drops open again when Gabe starts slipping out of the hoodie in the sexiest way he can. It feels awkward—it probably _looks_ awkward, and this still feels like something he’d do as a joke at someone’s bachelor party or a stupid team thing, with a few too many drinks in him and not enough shame. 

But Tyson is watching him, squirming near constantly if minutely in his seat on the couch and going increasingly redder. And it feels a bit serious like that, with the heat of Tyson’s overwhelming desire all over him, an important part of this that Gabe wants to stoke and protect. 

Even as Tyson clearly still doesn’t want it to be serious, finally clearing his throat as the hoodie drops to the floor.

“Can I say something?” and Gabe looks up to the ceiling so his delighted grin at Tyson asking isn’t quite so evident. 

“What?”

“Is heckling allowed or is that not being good?” 

Gabe can’t hold back a groan at that, shaking his head. “Why? Do you heckle a lot of strippers?”

“Uh, no, but you’re—Jesus Christ,” Tyson says. Gabe is dragging his hand up his own stomach, bringing his soft gray t-shirt with it to expose his abs, and he lets the hand drop at Tyson’s exclamation. “Don’t do that!”

“Don’t do what?” Gabe asks innocently, and there’s Tyson’s familiar indignation, his spluttering outrage at his own attraction to Gabe. 

“Tease!”

“Have you literally never even seen someone strip?” Gabe says, and he can’t help laughing as Tyson clenches his hands into fists over his thighs and drops the empty wine glass on the couch cushion next to him to do it.

“Not like—not when I’ve—just take your clothes off!”

“No,” Gabe says, laughing again at Tyson’s drawn-out groan.

Gabe makes Tyson wait for his shirt to come off, trying some of his more ridiculous dance moves just to set his teeth on edge, to watch his brow furrow and his frustration keep turning him on. When he does go for it, he goes whole hog, tugging slowly up from the collar at the back of the neck and dragging the shirt slowly over his shoulders. He shakes his hair out a bit when the shirt comes off, listening as Tyson swears and breathes too harshly through his mouth, and lets the shirt drop to the floor.

“Thank god,” Tyson breathes, but when Gabe meets his eyes again he doesn’t look quite grateful. He still looks slightly frustrated now, sweat beading at his temples and dampening the sparse hairs there, his knees spread wide.

He’s just _looking_ at Gabe. He looks like _that_ —messy, squirmy, a little wild already—just because Gabe is dancing slowly and stupidly in front of him, shirtless.

Six more months isn’t going to be enough, Gabe thinks.

And more specifically, right now, Gabe never wants _this_ to end, even as he feels his own impatience starting to build. He pours himself a glass of wine as the music winds down to change, winks at Tyson when he growls out, “Oh come on,” as he sips it with his hip cocked against the bar. “You’re evil,” he says when Gabe just keeps taking tiny, demure sips of red and bops his head along to the next, faster song, letting it pick up. 

“And you’re not being good at all, Tys.”

“Too bad. This is justified. You’re not being good either.” 

Gabe doesn’t argue with that, just finishes his wine and sets the glass down carefully. He heads back over near where Tyson still hasn’t left his seat, though he’s gripping the cushions now like he wants to. Gabe pushes at the waistband of his sweats, letting them sit low on his hips so that the entire top band of his boxer-briefs is showing. 

He leaves it there and smiles at Tyson, who curses at him.

“Come _on._ ”

“Keep this up and you’re not getting your lap dance,” Gabe warns, and Tyson throws his arms up in protest.

“You are the worst stripper ever!”

“Excuse me? I’m the best.” Gabe turns to shakes his ass a little to the music, and yelps when Tyson hurls a throw pillow at him. “Hey! Uncalled for! I’ll get the bouncer to throw you out!”

“I’ll get the bouncer to give me my cover charge back,” Tyson says darkly, crossing his arms over his chest, though when Gabe turns his knees are still spread wide, a tantalizing space between his thighs where his gym shorts are tented ever so slightly. Tyson meets his eyes, frowning. “The bouncer is Zoey, right?” 

Gabe’s chest feels familiar, overwhelming warmth, and he nods with a smile that shows it. Tyson smiles back, frustration forgotten for a moment as they just look at each other like idiots, enjoying this. Then Gabe gives another ass wriggle, his sweats slipping down more, and Tyson groans.

“You’re killing me.”

“I mean, that’s kind of the point,” Gabe says, but after a few more moments of Tyson just staring at him and absentmindedly rubbing at his inner thigh, he finally helps his pants slide down his thighs and pool at his feet, stepping neatly out of them. “Next time I’ll get tearaways, promise.”

“Next time,” Tyson whimpers, head dropping back. His hand stays where it is, tensed up, and then he looks at Gabe, swallowing hard. “Hey. Does keeping my hands to myself mean I can, you know?” He makes a jerkoff motion in the air above his lap and Gabe barks out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Geez. You want to?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Tyson breathes out.

“You want to get yourself off just watching me get naked?” Gabe asks, stepping closer, barely really dancing now, feeling his own patience starting to truly wear thin. Tyson is nodding eagerly, mouth gapped open, eyes bright and feverish with just that hint of embarrassment that Gabe wants to bottle and hold close always. “Really? That’s all it takes?”

“You’re so fucking hot,” Tyson says, swallowing hard. “You have no idea what you look like.”

He has some idea, but it’s the desperation in Tyson’s voice that really does it for Gabe—he wants to bite at the flush crawling down Tyson’s throat, following it down his chest and over his pointed, hard nipples. He wants Tyson’s hands on him, all over him, scratching and claiming his body and using it however he wants, because he can. And he wants Tyson to know that, that however hot he thinks Gabe is, it barely scratches the surface of how Tyson looks when he’s that turned on—burning bright and sloppy and sweaty and fever-hot. Gabe can hardly stand it.

Gabe doesn’t really answer Tyson yes or no, and he can tell the suspense is doing it for Tyson from the way his breathing is starting to pick up. But his answer is obvious—“No,” he says, just to hear Tyson’s low, wounded groan, just to watch him _listen_ and take his hands away from his thighs. 

For a moment, he wants to wait until Tyson says something like _please_ and he doesn’t think they’re too far off from that, but. He’s lost his patience too and so he says instead, “I think it’s time for that lap dance,” and he pulls his boxer-briefs off and stalks forward.

“Fuck,” Tyson says as Gabe drops heavily into his lap, letting Tyson take his full weight. “Fuck fuck fuck—” and his hands go up, fingers fluttering for a bit until Gabe takes both hands in one of his and then crushes their mouths together.

“This is better, I think,” Gabe pants into Tyson’s lips, biting at them as they open wide in hungry gasps. “Right?” and he uses his free hand to still Tyson’s frantically nodding head for kissing again. 

Tyson probably mumbles something like “right” and maybe another “fuck” into Gabe’s mouth but then Gabe grinds against his dick a few times and he’s rendered wordless, only high, broken up sounds escaping between them.

It’s a terrible lap dance and Gabe never meant to hype it up as anything but getting in Tyson’s lap and maybe getting on his dick shortly, but he also never expected Tyson to be so instantly into it, to still be so desperate between them until he has to yelp out, “Gabe, fuck, I’m gonna—” and then Gabe has to pull back.

“Jesus,” Gabe says, pushing himself up and bearing more weight on his thighs. There’s a small wet spot where the tip of Tyson’s dick is pushing against the crotch of his shorts, and Gabe stares down at it. He’s close enough to feel Tyson’s blushing all over, hot and a little needy, getting worse when Gabe asks, “Did you—”

“No,” Tyson says, a little frantic, his eyes slightly crazed. He goes redder, and Gabe always finds his humiliation just a bit pretty but now it’s somehow amped up, way more intense. Gabe licks his lips and handles his own dick while he waits Tyson out, adjusting where it’s hard just in front of Tyson’s heaving stomach. “Almost, though.”

“Don’t,” Gabe tells him softly, and for a second Tyson locks eyes with him and delivers such a powerful look of desperation, shame, vulnerability and fierce frustration that he wants to relent immediately and just make Tyson come in his shorts in 20 seconds. He distracts himself from that by fishing in the couch cushions behind Tyson and coming up with the bottle of lube and condom he’d stashed there, shoving it into Tyson’s still-held hands. “I want to come on your dick so you’ve gotta hold out for me, okay?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I love you,” Tyson says in what’s half a sob, half a moan, all out in a rush like it had been pent up all night. It’s enough to make Gabe freeze for a split second, the word _love_ pounding through his ears with every loud beat of his own heart, but he comes unfrozen when Tyson adds, “ _Really_?” like he can barely believe they’re here and that this is happening, like what he said just came out on instinct. 

“Really,” Gabe is quick to assure, and he curls Tyson’s fingers around the lube. “Come on, get me ready,” and it’s half instruction and half pleading. 

It’s a lot to finally have Tyson’s hands on him, one cupping over as much of his ass as he can while the other dips fingers between his cheeks, stroking over sensitive skin there and making Gabe tip his head back and groan. Gabe feels like he’s on fire, savoring the way Tyson’s hand drags over his thigh, his fingers slipping inside him carefully and pointedly. He rocks in Tyson’s grip, unable to stop moving, and tells him he’s going to ride him so hard they’re both going to feel it tomorrow.

“And you’re gonna watch me, right?” Gabe says as Tyson twists his fingers and bites distractedly at the skin over the side of Gabe’s rib cage, leaving smudgy pink marks behind. “Fuck, you’re gonna love it, right?”

“Yeah,” Tyson says, head dropping back and fingers driving up. Gabe’s spine stiffens and his dick blurts out precome as Tyson brushes over his prostate, and he lets his own groans slip out, wild and rough. 

“Come on, fuck, get your dick out,” Gabe says with not a little bit of desperation, and Tyson is quick to follow his lead, scrambling to shove his shorts down until they’re trapping his thick thighs together and his dick, pink and wet and neglected of late, is standing at attention between Gabe’s thighs. “There it is. Hold it for me.”

Tyson shudders all over, bone-deep and full, as Gabe rolls the condom over and then lowers himself down onto Tyson’s dick in one swift, powerful motion. They both groan together and don’t really stop once Gabe’s taken a moment to adjust and start moving again, working his thighs and hips to keep taking Tyson deep.

He thinks he’s better at this than the dancing, and from the way Tyson is looking up at him—awed, still disbelieving, eyes wide and hungry—tells him Tyson probably thinks so too. 

Tyson’s nonverbal again, arms strong and tight around Gabe and moving with him, and Gabe works himself on Tyson’s dick until he can feel the need starting to hit a breaking point in the pit of his stomach.

Gabe whimpers out, “Touch me,” and Tyson knows exactly where and exactly how, holding Gabe steady in one arm and snaking the other between them. He smears Gabe’s precome around to ease his way and strokes him with sure, steady movements, dipping his head to kiss Gabe’s bare chest and chant lowly at him to come, working Gabe through it when he does and cries out, finally stilling.

Tyson waits him out then too until Gabe can feel him shaking with need. When Gabe looks at his face, it’s tight and needy again, but he’s not moving and Gabe loves him, too. Gabe mumbles, “Fuck me,” and lets Tyson take all of his weight again, shivering with sensitivity as Tyson rolls his hips up and takes what he needs until he goes stiff and finishes. 

For a while after that, Gabe relishes in having Tyson trapped beneath him; he can’t go anywhere and clean up. He doesn’t have him naked, but they can work on that, and more satisfying is that Tyson doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere, holding onto Gabe as tightly as Gabe usually does to him, just breathing so steadily that for a few moments Gabe thinks he’s fallen asleep.

Finally, he sighs out gustily against Gabe’s chest and blinks up at him, bitten red lips curved into a soft smile. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “That was—”

“I know,” Gabe says happily, which makes Tyson laugh. “I told you we were good at that part.”

“All the parts,” Tyson mumbles as they start to shakily separate and get more comfortable, and Gabe meets his eyes and thinks _I love you_ at the top of his thoughts. Tyson blushes and Gabe thinks things are too tender for that to happen out loud right now, but he’s already planning as they curl against each other and put themselves together a bit more, Tyson gathering himself to say, “I’m not saying anything else, I don’t need to make your head any bigger.”

 

 

In the morning, Tyson groans piteously when he finds Gabe already up and making him waffles shirtless in the kitchen, making the waffle iron turn in swift movements to show off and then laughing when batter leaks out. 

“This is practice for my idea,” Gabe says, poking Tyson with a spatula and wriggling his hips when Tyson comes up to wrap his arms around him loosely from behind. “Next off day, no clothes.”

“Be quiet,” Tyson says, kissing his shoulders, and as usual Gabe takes the opposite approach, telling Tyson he loves him as they pick from each other’s plates. 

Gabe kisses Tyson sweetly when Tyson stammers it back, head ducked low and tasting maple syrup and strawberries. He thinks of six cumulative months and can’t wait to keep accumulating more.


End file.
